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For a long time, he wanted to believe he was a man of spontaneity. Always up for a last-minute plan, a spur of a moment road trip or visit to the nearest diner or pub. But that was years ago, when he was a twenty-something with no such thing as a five-year plan. In fact, it was a question he used to loath with his whole heart, whether it came from Ellen or stranger sitting across from him at an interview for a job he didn’t even want but needed anyway.
Now, closer to forty, he was okay with a lot of things that he never thought he would be.
He had a job at the near garage, nothing as homey as it used to be at Bobby’s place, but close enough. He didn’t shiver or flinch if he toyed with the idea of staying until he would be too old to lay under a car or too fragile to spend his day bent over under the hood of yet another car.
He had a home, not a motel or a temporary room in a friend of a friend’s house, but one that had all the papers in his name. It was nothing fancy, not the apartment Sam had in the big city, overlooking the other copy-paste tall buildings, but it was his and he loved it. Loved the spacious kitchen with the light wooden coloured cupboards, the back yard that opened into the forest, with all the birds and wildflowers.
He loved his Baby, sitting at the front, with her shiny black paint reflecting the small light next to his front door, always on with its welcoming orange hues.
It was an easy life, small and not exactly full of adventure and excitement, but he was content. Yet, the word happy felt like a stretch. There was something missing, something lacking that could be the difference between content and happy.
-
His eyes raked over the shelves in front of him, looking at the different options, trying to decide what he was in the mood for. It was just nearing nine and he stood in the small gas’n’sip between the garage and his home, as he did every evening for the past week.
His basket sat in the crook of his elbow, empty for now, as he contemplated between apple and cherry pie. He was in the mood for something fruity and on the slightly sour side of flavours. He thought about getting both, but he won’t eat two pies and he will be back tomorrow, so really, it would be a waste.
After a second, he grabbed the cherry one and placed it gingerly into his basket as he made his way towards the ready meals.
He had lasagne the other day and fish the day before. He loved a good burger, but it was something he loved to make himself, with extra bacon and a healthy amount of cheese, not whatever abomination they called the burger in a plastic box in front of him.
He felt himself grimace at the thought as he spotted something from the corner of his eye.
Normally, it wouldn’t be something he notices, let alone cares about, but he knew that shade of tan. Plus, never in his life, not anywhere between Oregon and Maine, has he ever saw a man wearing a trench coat like that.
His eyes still glued to the corner of the isle where the man disappeared to, he grabbed the first thing his fingers touched, giving a silent prayer for it to be anything but the burger, he quickly shoved the box in his basket before making his way towards the tills.
By the time he made it, the man stood in the queue with an older woman behind him, separating the two of them.
He tried to take a subtle glance at the man’s basket and yes, there it was. The same meal he always got. Peppered chicken with potato cubes.
Dean only started to make his trip to the store at this particular time for a week now, but he saw the man every day, save for the weekend, always buying the same ready meal, day after day.
While Dean wasn’t ashamed to admit he got somewhat boring along the years but having the same food all the time just seemed like a totally new level of boring.
He looked at the man who wore the same white shirt, the same blue tie and the same trench coat he wore the last time and the day before that.
His black hair too, was the exact same mess, poking out into different directions like he spent the entire day grabbing and pulling at it. Dean wouldn’t know, maybe he did.
He knew nothing about the man, save for his appearance and obsession for chicken and potato.
And isn’t that the problem?
Because Dean wanted to know this man.
He wanted to know why he looked so sad some nights and so happy, almost giddy at others. He wanted to know if that chicken meal was really that good that he was happy to eat it all the time.
He wanted to know what’s the story of the trench coat because it was clearly ill fitting and seen better days. He wanted to know if his hair looked such a mess in the mornings too.
He watched wordlessly as the cashier scanned the man’s items who only replied with a stiff nod at the total before pulling out a couple of bills, paying in cash.
He always paid in cash and while Dean himself had a credit card, or five, tucked in his wallet, he also favoured paying by cash most of the time.
He only saw the man’s lips forming the words, which he only assumed was a thank you.
He yet to hear the man’s voice.
It was only when he got to his own car, he finally realised he ended up grabbing the burger, with a displeased grunt he shoved it into the back of the fridge once he got home, knowing very well that he’d rather eat a salad then force that down.
The next day was just as uneventful than the previous one. He got up, went to work, fixed a couple of cars up, chatted to a few clients and left with a wordless wave two hours later than his official shift has ended. It’s not like he needed the additional money or was swamped with work so much so that he had to put in all those extra hours. The truth was, ever since he first realised the man in the trench coat always visited the shop around nine, he made it his daily routine to do his own shopping at the same time.
He didn’t want to particularly think about the reason behind it, too afraid to go down that rabbit hole.
He grabbed a basket by the door, eyes already scanning the people milling around in the shop. The first couple of times he tried to tell himself he wasn’t looking to spot a familiar face, but by now he was okay with it and he didn’t try to come up with lame excuses in his own head to justify his otherwise almost creepy behaviour.
That being said, he didn’t spot the messy black mope of hair or any tan coloured trench coats.
With a sigh, he took a beeline for isle 6, or as he liked to think of it, the pie isle. Not that it only had pies, but Dean had little to no care to the other pastries they offered.
When he turned the corner and found the man standing in the isle, he almost tripped over his own feet in surprise.
He stood and watched as the man leaned forward inspecting the selection of pies with an odd seriousness, his upper body hunched forward, head tilted slightly to the side.
Dean never saw the man come near the isle before, let alone paying any sort of attention to the pies.
He would know.
Dean made his way over slowly, suddenly very aware of the fact that it was only the two of them around. He was stuck between trying to clear his throat nervously and changing his hold on the basket as his palm suddenly felt sweaty against the plastic handle when the man suddenly broke into a grin and straightened his posture as he grabbed a box of pie victoriously.
He found himself coming to a sudden stop for the second time in the last three minutes and he wondered if this level of awkwardness should not have been reserved to teenagers and not grown ass men.
He watched as the man carefully placed the pie in his basket before turning away from the shelf, and Dean, before existing the isle.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, like the idiot he was, but by the time he joined the queue, the man had a small plastic bag in his left hand and a receipt and some loose change in the other.
Their eyes met and Dean almost dropped his basket, with the pecan pie and mac’n’cheese in it, as those blue eyes widened for a second before turning into something soft as the man gave the tiniest nod as he raised his bag slightly, almost as if he tried to say, ‘I got some too.’
It was only when the cashier cleared her throat and raised a very drawn on eyebrow at Dean, he finally kicked himself into motion and dragged his eyes away from the man.
-
Dean had an awful day. Someone scratched Baby, either last night while he was in the shop or during the night and he honestly hoped it was the former, he slept in because as shocking as it sounds, chargers only work when they plucked into the phone and the socket, only one or the other does not work, a client decided they were a self-appointed mechanic when in reality all they were was a massive pain in Dean’s ass and if those would not be enough to turn his day into a nightmare, he was also running late to his usual shopping which meant he only saw a glimpse of the man getting into his car before driving away. He drove a god damn Prius and Dean couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry at that. He felt that the six-pack he placed into his basket along with the chess pie and some ready meal was more than well-deserved after his day.
-
Dean spent the next day in work planning. It’s been two weeks since he spotted the man in the store for the first time. He knew next to nothing about the man, apart from the fact that he loved peppered chicken, had a questionable tase for fashion, and even more questionable taste for cars. Oh, and he grew fond of pies. He wanted to believe that it has something to do with him, but realistically, he couldn’t be sure. What he was sure about, however, is that the man was either in a relationship or gay. One of the cashiers, Hannah, if Dean remembered right, have tried to sneak her number to the man, who turned her down with a gentle smile and an adorable flush to his cheeks. God Dean hoped with everything he had that it was due to his sexual orientation rather than his relationship status.
Either way, he decided that silently checking out a stranger was all and well for two weeks, but at this rate, he’ll be bed ridden by the time they manage as much as a hello and Dean was many things, but a patient man he was not.
With that thought in mind, he decided to introduce himself to the man, maybe make a joke to break the ice, then ask him out for drinks. Or even better, a meal that does not come in plastic packaging.
He found himself tapping excitedly along the beat of the music as he made his way from the garage to the store.
As always, he grabbed the basket and made his way around familiar isles, picking up the usual bits as he went, eyes looking for the familiar figure.
His earlier excitement started to drop as he realised that the man isn’t about. Today being a Friday, this didn’t bode well for Dean’s weekend. He would spend the entire weekend thinking about this over and over again and overthinking never did any good to anyone, Dean himself included.
His mood was particularly sour by the time he shoved the crunched-up receipt into his back pocket along with the change and stepped out of the shop.
He felt his eyes go wide as he found himself face to face with the man with what was probably considered way closer then socially acceptable for two strangers. His eyes just as blue as Dean remembered. He watched as the man tilted his head to the side, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, voice deeper and rougher than Dean ever thought it would be.
“Your microwave or mine?”